Best 1141 quotes in «historical quotes» category

She ran. Deeper, deeper into the mysterious Broceliande forest...

She was shocked when she followed her aunt and cousin down into the city proper. The streets were crawling with people, all hurrying to and fro, mindless of one another. They brushed by with barely even a glance, stepping down into the busy roads between horse drawn buses and draymen’s carts with such confidence, seemingly oblivious that they could be run down at any moment. Children dodged in and out amongst them, ragamuffins all, some barefoot.

Shukhov stared at the ceiling and said nothing. He no longer knew whether he wanted to be free or not...it had gradually dawned on him that people like himself were not allowed to go home but were packed off into exile. And there was no knowing where the living was easier – here or there. The one thing he might want to ask God for was to let him go home. But they wouldn't let him go home.

Show me a man that gets rich by being a politician, and I'll show you a crook.

Some people remember the sixties better than others do. Some weren't even there, some who were there were not really there, and some who were not really there were "really there".

Sometimes people do misguided things for the most honorable of reasons.

Sons of a revolution fight for liberty. They give blood, flesh, limbs, their very lives. But daughters . . . we sacrifice our eternal souls.

So there was no one with whom I could share my bitter cup of poison. I would simply have to swallow the injustice down and lie about the taste until it killed me. Or until the shame of it burned me alive.

Stand anywhere on the mountains comprising Rollins Pass and one stands in the footsteps made by Native Americans, John Quincy Adams Rollins, David Moffat, Horace Sumner, George Barnes, John Trezise, James Benedict and Byron Olson, Jason LaBelle, the authors of this book, and many others. The fluttering pages of history unfurl to form an enduring tapestry—a shared story. Perhaps that is why Rollins Pass is so beloved: those who make the journey to bask in the magical beauty of this place and feel their souls restored in some small way reach across the infinite divide of time to uncover their own pioneering spirit on the dusty roads of Rollins Pass.

Stars flicker above, points of bright ice in a dark river. I pull a heavy sheepskin around my legs and stretch my feet toward the fire. Despite the cold, Liam plays his flute, the sound whistling through the night. Soon my eyes are heavy, my head nodding.I open my eyes at the deep melodious baritone of Salvius’s voice telling a tale. Liam’s flute is silent now. I have heard Salvius tell many tales on market days; he is known for his memory of wandering minstrels and mummers who visit us at Whitsunday and through Midsummer. Salvius is a mockingbird: he can give a fair charade of the rhythmic tones of any wandering bard or any noble of the Royal Court.In this darkness, his eyes catch the light like a cat in the night.

Still pleasant as a cornered hedgehog, and as well mannered as a badger, I see.

Take me deep into the woods, away from the others and make love to me, Killian, for I cannot bear to be parted from you any longer!” she whispered in his ear.

That first scream, my lord, was indeed your daughter, my wife, and if you kill me, your grandchild will be quite without a father. Won't you come in?

That thicket gave me my first thought of what a long poem should be. Its unpeopled, life-filled stillness, its silence held by the crash of breaking waves below. I thought of a poem as a place into which one could wander, away from the cares of life. I realized its characters should be as unreal, and as utterly real, as the shadows that people this thicket.

Since long intestines and large brains are both massive energy consumers, it’s hard to have both.

Sneezeweed, Drew?" He grinned. "Jealous?" "Surprised." "Remind me, and I'll have a talk with Gerald. Give him a few tips." "Promise?" "Absolutely.

The best historical stories capture the modern imagination because they are, in many senses, still current - part of a continuum.

The clouds of night opened like ink blossoming in water.

The cool touch of the rock soothed Waeccan. He felt its strength flowing into him, trickling through his fingertips. The Shades were on his side. They would bring back the peace he needed for his work. The intruder was just a man—nothing more. He would be dealt with. Everything would be as it was meant to be. Waeccan allowed himself a grim smile. How strange it was that he, whose name meant watcher, had become the one who was watched.

The English language [during the Elizabethan era] wasn't standardized. There were no official dictionaries. There was no cultural belief that words should always be spelled the same way. So people spelled things however they heard them or however made sense. I mean the name Shakespeare had something like 16 different spellings, and the way he spelled it isn't the way we spell it.- School of Night - pg 44

The greatest challenge of my life has been to see and accept the actual truth without great pain and struggle against it.

Their daughter scrunched up her hands and legs, waving them wildly in the air. He opened his palm, allowing the babe to kick his hand. "Is she like a puppy?" Constance choked. "What!" He looked up. "Will she get her spots later?" Laughter bubbled up from within her as she playfully whacked him on the shoulder. "Yes. Yes, I'm afraid she will. As soon as the sun touches her skin, the freckles will appear." A delicious two-dimple grin spread across his face. "Good. I find I'm rather partial to freckled redheads.

The last time Sean found trouble, she arrived in a package of blonde hair and blue eyes.” ~ Giles on Jem

...the long blue shadows of afternoon advanced before me like cheerful ghosts of last summer's growth, dancing past the withered flower borders and the stiff hedges to fall at the feet of a stone nymph, her cascade of water frozen in her urn.

The marine underworld stretched below the ship and embodied many secrets. The disappearance of Olga had become one of the mysteries that would remain with Stefania and her family. The disappearance of her baby sister and sudden departure from her home had taught the ten-year-old that life was filled with uncertainties. But she was willing to forget that for a little while. She jumped down from the barrel and headed toward Liam, Felix, and the other shipmates. They would sing shanties and talk of the constellations, the sea, its creatures, and the legends. It would get her through another night. La Suerte was the only stability for her passengers with the infinite unknown all around them. The waters of the sea, the world below the surface, and the sky that stretched beyond the horizon was a representation of the limitless possibilities and dangers awaiting those aboard.

The momentary darkness gave way to scores of small glowing lights. Blaise stepped into a candlelit room filled with people and furniture. 'Where are we?" he asked Livia. "How can a whole other room be here? There were only two rooms on the top floor.

The more Radu knew the women around him, the more he wondered if any of them were not secretly terrifying.

Then, after picking up his papers, Pierre began: “A beautiful woman can be the downfall of a gentleman . . . but the uplift of a beggar!

The only woman who would wear a gown like this one, love, is one who knows the power she wields and isn’t afraid to use it.

There are mercies, and there are mercies.

There are no more gates, only hinges clinging to the walls like broken spiders.

There is an abiding fear Bonaparte will invade England by way of a tunnel beneath the Channel. How ingenious! Why, had such a marvellous thing been in place, the Tsar might have spend to Dover in an open barouche instead of enduring the mal de mer!

There was an exciting atmosphere about the place that uplifted her. It was as if she could actually feel the accelerated steady pulse of the town's heart beating in time with her own.

There were three wedding cakes, curious and historical but tasty, each labeled with a calligraphed card: "Plumb Cake" with currants, nutmeg, mace, cinnamon, salt, citron, orange peel candied, flour, eggs, yeast, wine, cream, raisins. Adapted from Mrs. Simmons, American Cookery, 1796. "Curran-cake" with sugar, eggs, butter, flour, currans, brandy. Adapted from Mrs. McClintock, Receipts for Cookery and Pastry-Work, 1736. "Chocolate Honeycake" with oil, unsweetened cocoa and baking chocolate, honey, eggs, vanilla, flour, salt, baking powder. Adapted from Mollie Katzen, The Enchanted Broccoli Forest, 1982.

These trials aren't about revenge. They're about justice. Don't you want justice, Rose Justice?

The significance of the effect is determined by the importance of the immediate cause.

The stiff night smells like the promise of coming rain, though its scent is doused by the strong odor of corn mash fermenting with yeast. Afar off a coyote howls, then a bit later a screech owl, and in between shivers and sighs of smaller night creatures.

The throbbing shimmy spread through my hips and thighs. I could have sworn my body started to glow as if light were shooting from my fingertips and each strand of hair.

The traditions of . . . bygone times, even to the smallest social particular, enable one to understand more clearly the circumstances with contributed to the formation of character. The daily life into which people are born, and into which they are absorbed before they are well aware, forms chains which only one in a hundred has moral strength enough to despise, and to break when the right time comes - when an inward necessity for independent individual action arises, which is superior to all outward conventionalities. Therefore it is well to know what were the chains of daily domestic habit which were the natural leading-strings of our forefathers before they learnt to go alone.

The weather in this land was quite unruly, and if you couldn't appreciate the many shades of gray, you had no business living in it. Alden Garrat Warrior Heart

The whore or the saint: these seemed to be the prototypes set up by the Church's historic misogyny. But was there no alternative model to follow? Yes, for Anne had seen for herself that it was possible to be an independent thinker, set free from the pattern of sinful Eve or patient Griselda. She had been in the company of clever, strong-willed women like the Regent Margaret of Austria and Margaret of Navarre. The influence of evangelism had enabled women of character to take an alternative path, one that offered Anne Boleyn a different future.

The word "We" is as lime poured over men, which sets and hardens to stone, and crushes all beneath it, and that which is white and that which is black are lost equally in the grey of it. It is the word by which the depraved steal the virtue of the good, by which the weak steal the might of the strong, by which the fools steal the wisdom of the sages. What is my joy if all hands, even the unclean, can reach into it? What is my wisdom, if even the fools can dictate to me? What is my freedom, if all creatures, even the botched and impotent, are my masters? What is my life, if I am but to bow, to agree and to obey? But I am done with this creed of corruption. I am done with the monster of "We," the word of serfdom, of plunder, of misery, falsehood and shame. And now I see the face of god, and I raise this god over the earth, this god whom men have sought since men came into being, this god who will grant them joy and peace and pride. This god, this one word: "I.

The written word is greatest sacred documentation.

They say that history is going on somewhere. They say it won't stop. I have held One picture still for a long time and waited.

They were magnificent all right, with the magnificence that can only grow in the ground of great foolishness.

Though the heart may be cracked wide, pain can still seep in.

Thought you didn't like red hair." One of Drew's dimples kicked in as he draped an arm about Grandma's shoulder. "Must have me confused with someone else, but I'm not surprised. Seems to happen to most of the older set at some point or other.

Time is tick, tick, ticking away. How many souls will I capture today? Will they be a challenge or will they be given? Only time will tell as the clock keeps tick, tick, ticking. Your god has arrived with enough hatred for y’all, with enough evil for the big and small, so come one, come all. I will shred your souls and place them in my satchel, call you a settler and make you my peddler. Come one, come all, come stand behind your god. I will lead you into the darkness of Earth's end. Come one, come all, my wilted flowers, come claim your title, speak out and cheer it. Come one, come all, let’s have a ball, my wilted flowers . . . Sweet, Unconquerable Spirits.

Upon Hirotsugu’s birth, the Fujiwara clan made great plans for his future, and I watched from my throne of skulls behind the kagerō veil and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Valentine reminds us that to be fully human is to be both a story teller and a story dweller." --- Christina Meldrum, author of Madapple and Amaryllis in Blueberry